


"Julia."

by sunnyamazing



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyamazing/pseuds/sunnyamazing
Summary: “Julia.”The first time he mentions her, the first time he says her name out loud, she brushes it off. It didn’t seem unusual that he would react to her presence, out of the blue. When he saw her face, and heard her voice, unexpectedly appearing on the screen.  She was his principal, then she died, and the people responsible were taking the stand that morning.The four times, Vicky hears David mention Julia; and the lingering of a ghost.---“David.”The first time she says his name, she isn’t even sure if she has really spoken the word aloud. She has wavered between stages of consciousness and darkness for what feels like forever.The four times a mother hears her daughter say his name.
Relationships: David Budd/Julia Montague, David Budd/Vicky Budd
Comments: 50
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is something different. I wasn't sure what it was when I was writing it, but it came to me and I wrote it and my amazing friend Ally told me it wasn't weird and that she enjoyed it, therefore I hope you will too!

The first time he mentions her, the first time he says her name out loud, she brushes it off. It didn’t seem unusual that he would react to her presence, out of the blue. When he saw her face, and heard her voice, unexpectedly appearing on the screen. She was his principal, then she died, and the people responsible were taking the stand that morning. 

The television had been on in the background, while Ella and Charlie were at the kitchen table, each of them chewing mouthfuls of toast as fast as they could. She had been standing beside them, stealing the crusts from Charlie’s plate as she folded washing into the basket beside the table; and he, well, he had been standing in the kitchen, his back to them all, busily making himself a cup of coffee. 

He had arrived early that morning, just as their children had risen from their beds and the four of them had shared their new morning routine together. He had made the toast, tea for her and then had been halfway through his own coffee when the sound emanating from the television had caught his attention. 

He had stilled immediately; one of his palms pressed down against the counter, the spoon he had been using dropped down against the bench with a clatter. 

“Julia.” 

He had whispered it under his breath, and she had barely been able to hear him. She had watched as his back tensed and his shoulders rose and she slowly moved her attention from him to the television. It had just been background noise, but it was now the focus of the attention from both the adults in the room. Ella and Charlie didn’t notice; they continue on with their eating. But she watches as the television replays footage of the late Right Honourable Julia Montague. The volume is loud enough for her voice to be heard, as she challenges her opponents about the danger of secrets, of people plotting to overthrow governments and no-one, least of all the government, knowing what they were doing. 

She watches as the snippet ends with Julia fixing a stare at her political opponents and then, just as she turns to take her seat next to the former PM she brushes the back of her hair delicately, tucking a loose curl behind one of her ears. A mixture of power and precision at the same time. She knew what she was doing. Vicky has always known this about her, or if she’d hadn’t known, she’d assumed. Of course, they’d never met. The only contact they’d ever had was Vicky seeing her on television, her face on the front of the paper and then Dave telling her that he was to be her PPO, a promotion for his work on the First of October. 

As soon as he’d started to work with Julia, her life and the lives of their children had been constantly turned upside down. There had been explosions and gunshots outside the school, snipers attacking ministerial vehicles and then a bomb. One that had detonated and had claimed the life of its intended target. The day she had found him, a muzzle burn to the side of his head, with three letters written and waiting, she’d wondered if he’d ever be the same again. 

She had given up long ago on the old Dave returning, the one before his service, before Helmand, before scars; both mental and physical reared their ugly head, time and time again. So, she’d told him to leave, she’d been unable to stop pretending that everything was okay, that she was able to lay next to someone and sleep soundly when she worried that one wrong move from her would lead to his hands holding tight around her neck. So, she had added to the scars, told him they had needed to separate. She’d broken him just a little bit more, and the man she once fell in love with, all deep blue eyes and dazzling smile, had disappeared. 

But, she’d never stopped loving him. Never stopped hoping that the old Dave would return. But she’d moved on. Or at least had tried to. Her new partner was a doctor who she had known for a few months. He was calm and reassuring and she had been enjoying their burgeoning relationship, and then there had been another bomb. Well, of sorts. First came the knowledge he had been sleeping with the late Home Secretary, and then an actual bomb, strapped to his chest in the middle of a park. 

There was a large chance that he would explode, literally into pieces, right in front of her. It was enough to stir up feelings she’d believed were dead, and when he had come to pick Ella and Charlie up to take them away for the weekend, he had asked her if she’d wanted to come with them. Instead of brushing him aside and not entertaining the idea at all, she had readily agreed. 

Two days later, late one evening as they’d sat at the kitchen table, long after Ella and Charlie had fallen asleep, he’d offered to tell her more about what had gone on between himself and Julia, though he’d never said her name. He only called her “the Home Secretary” and she had decided she didn’t need to know. Julia was in the past now… all of what had gone before couldn’t be changed, and this was their chance at a fresh start. 

But, as she watched his shallow breathing from across the room, she wonders if she should’ve asked more questions and for a moment, a fleeting one, she feels as if maybe she is second best ... his second choice … and she found herself wondering if Julia hadn’t been killed, if he would be standing there with them at all. 

The news moves on to the weather and the high chance of rain this afternoon and she hears the spoon begin to stir around in his mug once more. When he turns to look at her, his face displays no sign of discomfort as he raises the mug to his lips and then takes a small sip, before lowering it and smiling at their son. “Remember Charlie Bear, you need your football kit for after school.” 

She smiles as he steps closer to the three of them, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair back into Ella’s braid, before he takes the t-shirt from her hand that she has stilled in folding. “Vick,” he says softly before questioning, “you’d better be going?” 

She nods as he shakes the shirt and then folds it deftly between his fingers, laying it on top of the rest of the washing. He then leans to kiss her cheek, as if his reaction from before has been quickly forgotten. He doesn’t mention it and neither does she. She pats one of his hands, kisses the top of the heads of both their children and then leaves the house. For the rest of the day, she tends to patients, people with wounds she can see, but all the while she wonders about the wounds Dave has hidden from her and whether she will ever see him clearly again. 

The second time she hears him say her name, he thinks he’s alone. He is outside, in the garden, staring up at the black sky. He and Charlie had been playing football for hours, while she and Ella had made a cake for a school fete the next day. They had laughed as they’d watched the ball sail past Dave’s head on numerous occasions, hitting the back of the makeshift net, before Charlie raised his t-shirt over his face and ran in circles, screaming “CHARLIE – SEVEN, DAD – NIL.” 

Ella and Charlie had been decorating the cake, preoccupied with how many chocolate chips would cover the top. Charlie had also been eagerly explaining to Ella about the new book he had been reading at school. David had been watching the two of them wistfully before he had excused himself back into the garden. She had watched as he had carefully folded the net away and tucked it back behind the rubbish bins, before he reached down for the ball and began to throw it up and down. 

His head is raised towards the darkened sky, the ball still landing in his outstretched hands. She approaches him carefully. She knows she cannot startle him, knows of his intense reflexes well, and his ability to strike out when he believes he is under attack. But she stops before she reaches him. She can hear him whispering, and as she moves one step closer, she hears a lone word leave his lips. 

“Julia.” 

She knows immediately why he is thinking of her now. It makes sense. He has always been convinced that she was responsible for Charlie getting into the special school he had needed to attend. At the time the letter arrived, he had spoken of someone pulling strings, and then on their first visit to the school for parent’s evening, he revealed to her that he knew Charlie had been given preferential treatment. Treatment that came from somewhere high up. 

Vicky was grateful for the change in her son’s circumstances. She only ever wanted the best for her children, and if the late Home Secretary had seen it fit to help Charlie jump the queue, she would have no hesitation in thanking her; should she have still been alive. But she is not, and Vicky has started to wonder if she is competing against a woman who she seems to have no chance of beating. Alive, Julia Montague seemed like formidable competition, but dead, when everyone is remembered as ten times better than they were alive, the competition seems tremendously swayed towards the other woman. 

David turns before she reaches him, his eyes leave staring at the sky and he smiles as he throws the ball towards her. She catches it easily, as he begins to speak.

“Charlie,” he says proudly, “I think he might actually get a game this weekend.” 

She nods back at him, as she stands opposite him and begins to copy how he had been throwing the ball up and down. 

“Are you alright?” she questions cautiously. 

He nods and smiles. “Aye, of course. I’m the father of a future football star,” he chuckles before adding, “and one who will be able to read as well as he kicks goals.” 

She laughs, a hollow chuckle, a laugh made because she thinks she has to laugh at his attempted joke. He doesn’t realise she heard him, or if he does, his ability to pretend everything is fine has only increased with the therapy sessions he has been attending. 

He throws an arm over her shoulder easily. “Is it your turn for the dishes, or mine?” he questions as he nudges his side into hers. 

She raises an eyebrow, he knows it is his turn. So tonight, he will read to both Charlie and Ella, come downstairs, wash the dishes and then they will engage in polite chatter, usually about the children and then eventually he will kiss her goodbye and then go home to his flat while she remains in their house with their children. She doesn’t really understand what is happening in their relationship, neither of them are dating anyone else, but they aren’t dating each other either. Nor are they acting married, like the paperwork still states they are. 

She flicks the ball upwards toward his head and he headbutts it upward, bouncing off the side of his face. The side where a faint scar still lingers, remnants of a gunshot to his temple, a time when he thought he couldn’t live without a certain person in his life. She isn’t here now, but he clearly still thinks about her. He’s alive, but she wonders if he is truly living, and then she wonders if she is, too. Or are they both living with a ghost? Someone who will always be hanging over their heads, and life is never going to be the same.

He nudges her again. “First one inside has to read the longest book?” he suggests, a devilish smile plays across his lips. As their children grow, so do the length of bedtime stories. 

She reaches out and pokes him in the shoulder, and smiling back, she plays along with his teasing. “Sure,” she replies, before she spins away from him, “but I get the head start.” 

She hears him laugh as she reaches the door first, but still she wonders about the strength of his laugh. Is it real? Or is it as hollow as hers is? Or is she reading too much into things? Maybe it is possible he has come back, that when he laughs now, he means it. That his laugh doesn’t mask the pain the way it used to. She continues thinking and overthinking, until Ella and Charlie are arguing about where the cake should be placed in the refrigerator and her thoughts about the ghost of Julia Montague disappear. 

The third time she hears him speak her name, it hits her like a freight truck. He’s asleep on her sofa, having dozed off in the middle of the two of them watching a movie. It had been her turn to choose and she had chosen a romantic comedy. He had been snoring softly before the lead characters had declared their feelings for one another, and by the time the movie had almost ended, he was sleeping soundly with his head resting on her shoulder. 

She had reached out to run one of her hands through his curls, a lone finger brushing through the grey streak that adorned his forehead. He had smiled in his sleep before he whispered her name. 

“Julia.” 

She had felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs. His whole face was smiling, his eyes still closed, but the corners of his mouth had turned upwards, before he sighed peacefully. Her heart sunk. She had forgotten what he looked like when he really smiled ... the same face she had seen on their wedding day, the days he had held Ella and then Charlie for the first time. She hadn’t seen him smile like that since before Helmand. If she was honest, she had thought he didn’t do that anymore, that he didn’t know how. 

But perhaps he just didn’t smile like that for _her_ anymore. Those smiles were saved for a ghost. He had told her he’d needed to visit the Home Office earlier today; his new principal had taken a meeting with Julia’s incumbent. He had even admitted to her that it had been strange to be back there, especially when some of the same staff had remained after the bombing. 

She could’ve written off the mention of Julia as related to where he had been that day, a reminder of the time they had spent in that building together. The mention was fine, she reasoned, but the smile... 

No. She couldn’t just write that off. 

This hadn’t been working. Maybe she had been kidding herself for ever entertaining the possibility that it could. He was never going to be the man that she had fallen in love with and she wasn’t the woman he had fallen in love with anymore either. It had been reckless for them to try again, too much had happened, too many wounds were keeping them separated.

It wasn’t just the lingering of a ghost. 

She had switched off her movie just as the credits began to roll, the main characters kissing passionately as the final scene ended. Life wasn’t a movie. She cursed herself for thinking that she could go back, that they could... Maybe when he had offered, she should’ve listened to what had gone on between him and Julia, maybe then they would’ve been able to finally bury the ghost and move forward with their future. 

She had carefully slid her shoulder out from under his. He only stirred slightly before his head rested back against the arm of the sofa. She stood slowly, delicately covering his lower body with a blanket. She had watched him for a moment, deciding she wouldn’t send him home tonight. He could stay, because in the morning they would need to talk.

The fourth time she hears him say her name, she’s more shocked than ever. She had been expecting to hear him talk about her today, maybe, possibly. But never like this. Never for this reason. 

Today marks a year since the attack at St. Matthews. The two of them, however, are no longer pretending they can be married. They both decided that whilst they still had feelings for one another as the parents of their children, the love they once had for each other had dissipated, and it wasn’t fair to either of them to keep holding on to something that was broken long ago. 

She never told him about the time she had heard him whisper her name in his sleep. She hadn’t felt the need to. What good would it have done him to know that she knew he had dreamt of Julia while he had been with her. 

The two of them are in his flat eating dinner alone. Ella and Charlie have both gone to a sleepover with two of their friends, who are also conveniently brother and sister. 

Vicky hadn’t known if he would need her to be with him tonight, but just in case, she had organised for the children to be away for the night and had swapped her shift to the daytime. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to eat together as they co-parent their children. Though it had taken some time, and a few heated arguments, they’d finally settled into a comfortable co-existence in the last few months. 

So, they’d been sitting upstairs, a pizza box in front of them, two slices left. She had been waiting for him to say something. They had discussed all their usual topics of conversation: his job, her job, Charlie’s latest goal at football and Ella’s persistence in suggesting that she wanted to give dancing lessons another try. 

She had considered asking him about his therapy, about his continued progress, but every time she starts to, she stops herself. Maybe tonight is not the best time. She has noticed that he is smiling more, he no longer seems to walk as if the weight of the world is crushing him with every step. She smiles, she’s happy if he’s happy. 

He smiles back at her as he lifts the pizza box, wiggling it underneath her nose, “Dessert will be here soon,” he remarks. “D’you want another piece?”

She shakes her head. “Surely you need lunch tomorrow,” she teases and she watches as his eyes narrow, she can see him attempting to think of a witty comeback, but she is saved by a soft knock on the door. He is on his feet before she thinks she heard the sound. “Now I know why I am constantly buying biscuits,” she teases as David moves towards the door, “our children have your sweet tooth.” 

He laughs. “Aye,” he begins turning back from the door to stare at her, “I suppose you don’t want any of this dessert then?” he questions with a flourish as he gestures into the air. 

She rolls her eyes. “David, just open the door. You can’t leave the poor delivery man out there all night.” 

He chuckles and nods rapidly as another soft knock lands on the door. “Okay, I’m here.” He says with a laugh as he reaches out to pull the door open. 

Vicky watches as he opens the door. His back stiffens, and his whole-body stills. She stares at his back for a minute, her pulse racing as she begins to stand. Whatever is outside the door has startled him. She takes two steps forward before he speaks, his voice low and almost disbelieving. 

“Julia.” 

Vicky’s feet move faster now, though it feels as if she’s moving In slow motion when she places one hand on the side of the wooden frame, opening the door wider. David hasn’t said anything else, just the name of a ghost. A heavy silence hangs in the air. 

She doesn’t look the unexpected guest in the face first. She begins at the ground instead. Plain white trainers adorn feet, followed by simple black ponte pants and a large white woollen cardigan. Vicky takes a small breath as for the first time she meets hazel eyes, wide and blinking at her in obvious confusion.

Her hair is longer than it used to be on television, it falls below her shoulders and is perfectly straightened with a black beret sitting atop her head. 

The hazel eyes blink again, moving between her and her ex-husband, as Vicky hears David breathing shallowly beside her. He is staring cautiously, as if he cannot believe what or who he is seeing standing in front of him. 

Vicky thought she’d been competing against a ghost, an invisible presence, this whole time. 

But Julia Montague is not a ghost, she’s very much alive. 

Her attention turns back to David and she sees his eyes filled with unshed tears and his lips beginning to smile at the corners. He cannot help it. 

Vicky never stood a chance; she knows that now. 

And then, the ghost speaks.

“David.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frances hears the voice of her daughter for the first time, and she cannot help it when her eyes fill with tears. She has been half asleep in an uncomfortable plastic grey chair for the last twenty-something hours; as her only child, her daughter, teeters precariously on the edge of life and death. 
> 
> “David.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your amazing responses to the first chapter. I was truly overwhelmed. I am so pleased that you enjoyed it. This next part is for you all, I'd love to hear what you think of this part as well.
> 
> Mega thanks to the amazing Ally for her beta skills, love you wonder twin.

The first time she says his name, she isn’t even sure if she has really spoken the word aloud. She has wavered between stages of consciousness and darkness for what feels like forever. 

Her voice is weak and hoarse, and each of the letters sound as if she has made them with great difficulty. She only says it once, before she begins to breathe rapidly, her broken body shaking in the confines of a small hospital bed. 

Frances Montague hears the voice of her daughter for the first time, and she cannot help it when her eyes fill with tears. She has been half asleep in an uncomfortable plastic grey chair for the last twenty-something hours; as her only child, her daughter, teeters precariously on the edge of life and death. 

“David.”

Frances pulls herself to her feet as Julia’s eyelids flutter open, and just for a moment, confused hazel eyes meet her own. Frances tries to smile and reaches out for Julia’s hand, squeezing her fingers in her own. 

“You’re okay, dear,” she says reassuringly, trying to keep her tone light, to forgo some of the worry she currently holds for the injured woman laying brokenly in the bed. 

Julia blinks, once and then twice, and Frances wonders if she is going to try and say anything else. But no other words come. Her daughter wheezes and then her eyes close. Frances squeezes her hand again, hoping for another sign of life, another sign that her daughter is still fighting. 

Julia’s fingers tremble slightly against Frances’ before her hand stills and her breathing slows, the concoction of painkillers taking control of her once more. Her mother sighs. Back into unconsciousness Julia falls once again. 

Frances lowers herself back into the chair and wipes away a lone tear which has escaped her eye. Not for the first time, she wishes her husband was here. He always knew what to do. He was always the calm one during a crisis, and he and Julia had a relationship that Frances was quite sure she would never fully understand. 

She loves her daughter fiercely. She was proud of her, although perhaps she had never told her enough. She promises herself in that moment that she’ll make sure to tell her, should her daughter get through this whole ordeal.

The Home Secretary, up until a day ago, had been one of the most powerful women, _strike that_ , one of the most powerful _people_ in Britain. Julia Montague had an obvious aura about her, a mixture of power and precision. Always immaculate in her appearance and concise in her words, Julia Montague was never badly presented; most of the time she never even had a hair out of place. But Frances Montague’s daughter does not look like that now. Her head is bandaged, as is one of her arms and her left side, from hip to toe, has been braced in a position that Frances feels would be considered far from comfortable. 

Her eyes raise as a nurse comes in to check Julia’s vital signs. The woman smiles kindly and Frances wishes she had the energy to smile back. The last 24 hours have been nothing but exhausting, and she’s not even the one who is injured. 

The hospital room is private, her daughter the only patient. The only sound that fills the quiet space is the humming of hospital equipment and the occasional beep.

The nurse takes Julia’s temperature, the thermometer gingerly tucked into her daughter’s ear. When it beeps, the nurse reads the result, takes it down on her notepad and then leaves Frances and Julia alone once more. 

There is no medical chart, no reports inside this room, no notation as to whom this broken woman inside the bed used to be. The nurse, the same one each time, holds her daughter’s vital signs privately. She has made the promise that _should_ Julia wake up and eventually be well enough to leave her care -- Frances is quick to shake her head, no, _when_ Julia wakes up and leaves her care -- the records will be destroyed. None of what is happening in this room will have ever happened. 

Because the Right Honourable Julia Montague MP, the person her daughter used to be, no longer exists.

Frances shakes her head once more. She doesn’t know how she ended up here. She knew her daughter wasn’t loved by the general public, she knew that she had made her own special kind of enemies... but Frances was proud of Julia’s work. She had not raised her daughter to be ordinary, she raised her to be a _somebody_.

She reads the papers. She watches the news. Frances Montague has always stayed very well-informed. And she could see and hear the changing of the tide against both her daughter and the Prime Minister. She sensed the battle the media was trying to create between the two of them. The PM has been presented as a middle ground, willing to placate, willing to give in, versus her daughter who has never given up on anything in her life. Frances can only hope that the fight for her life is another battle she is able to win. 

She pats Julia’s hand again tenderly, hoping for another sign of life. But there is no movement beside the steady bleep of the monitor and the soft but shallow occasional intake of air filling her daughter’s lungs, one of which had to be reinflated after collapsing after the attack. 

Frances had known Julia intended to attend her speaking arrangement at St. Matthews. The media had reported it widely as soon as it was confirmed. She had not spoken to Julia since the day after the attack at Thornton Circus, when her daughter had called her from the Home Office, just as her press conference was scheduled to begin. She had reassured her mother that she was fine, ready to continue her work and she was undaunted by the attempt on her life. Frances had wanted to believe her.

She had been attending a function with some of her late husband’s former colleagues when she had received a harried phone call from her ex-son-in-law. In all honesty, she had contemplated ignoring the call when she saw his name, but when the call continued long past the usual amount of ringing, Frances had answered. Before she knew it, she was in the back of a town car being sped towards the hospital at breakneck speed. 

She had barely had time to breathe, let alone think before she had arrived at the hospital with Roger by her side as they headed towards her daughter’s bedside. She vividly remembered Roger growling at a man in the waiting room, accusing him of failing her daughter and gently placing his hand on her shoulder. Frances had wanted to push Roger away, his pretentious attitude cloying at her every move. But she knew it wasn’t the time.

The last words she remembers hearing is that they were all _sorry,_ and she had felt her heart shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. Doctors dressed in green trying to tell her that Julia was gone and then Roger’s arm on her shoulder. She had to move away from him soon after. She had sought refuge in a family room, her head in her hands, before a tall stranger, dressed in a dark suit appeared before her. He had regarded her carefully, emotionless eyes peering down at her, and she had wanted to shout. To tell him to leave her alone, she was grieving. Her family, her only child, had been taken away from her. 

“You need to follow me,” the man had told her. She wasn’t quite sure why she obliged so quickly, but she had. She had followed him down three corridors, into two lifts and finally into the isolation wing of the hospital. He had opened the door of the room where she now sits, and she had seen Julia for the first time. Not cold in the mortuary, as she had expected, but warm and sleeping in a solitary room; hidden away in a secret place. She had barely registered any of the words he had told her, as she felt the shattered pieces of her heart begin to slowly stitch themselves together again. 

Her daughter was _alive_. 

But to the rest of the world, she would need to be dead. 

Frances had barely left her side since, only once really. To find Roger, and then pretend she was headed home; he had wanted to follow her, to be with her, to be ‘united in their grief,’ but Frances managed to convince him she wanted to be alone. She needed to grieve in peace. After she was sure he had gone, she snuck back up to Julia’s room and held tightly to her daughter’s frail hand through the night, waiting for some sign of life.

Her daughter was _alive_. 

Julia’s eyes flutter once more and Frances holds her breath. She wonders if Julia will try to speak again. So far it has only been that one solitary word, a name whispered from chapped lips. It’s the name of her Personal Protection Officer, and Frances cannot help but wonder why it is his name, out of all the others, that her daughter has called. 

The second time she hears her call for him, she pretends she hasn’t heard. 

It is easier that way. Easier to pretend. 

It is some months later, and mother and daughter are tucked away in a cottage located in a sleepy French village. As Frances stands in the hallway, sipping at her tea, her daughter works with her physical therapist. 

She has heard Julia curse four times since she began listening from the hall. To anyone else, Julia’s progress is nothing short of a miracle, but to Julia, it is still not good enough. Her scars have begun to fade. Her movement has started to return, but nothing seems to be moving quickly enough for her daughter. 

She hears the clipped responses in French and her daughter dismissing the therapist until later in the week. Then the sound of Julia shuffling toward her bedroom. Frances begins to follow her, stopping just short of Julia’s bedroom door, placing her hand onto the door handle. She can just see her daughter slump down onto her bed and her head falling into her hands. 

She hears her daughter’s deep sighing and then a sharp gasp and a wince from the pain. Frances wants to run into the room and reassure her of how well she is doing and how much progress she has made so far. But she holds back. Julia has still been holding her at an arms distance. Frances knows Julia tries to walk taller and appear less in pain whenever she is around, and she wonders if this is healthy. If she should perhaps leave Julia’s care to someone else, but she cannot seem to do so. She feels a need to be here. 

There is the sound of shoes hitting the floor, followed by the sound of a strangled sob. Julia breathes deeply, an attempt to hold back her emotions. Frances can hear her daughter’s pain for just a moment, before the sound of the running water drowns out her sobs. 

Frances removes her hand and retreats from the hallway, disappearing into the kitchen. She hears Julia finish showering and then the sound of the television fills the cottage. The BBC News theme sounds as the news from London begins to be heard. Frances sighs. She has tried to persuade Julia that watching any of the events she has been removed from is not good for her. But she has refused to listen. 

Frances listens carefully to the headlines, checking to see if she can hear any mention of her daughter and the previous life and position she once held. The mentions of Julia seem to become fewer and far between these days. There is a new PM, and he seems to be going about his business with little argument. Frances cannot help but wonder should Julia not be hidden away here with her, if he would have been having such an easy time. 

Frances begins to busy herself with the task of preparing lunch. She slices tomatoes carefully and places them and slices of cheese into bread rolls which she had purchased in town the day before. She sets the roll onto a plate and moves toward Julia’s bedroom. 

_“The trial of Lorraine Craddock is set to commence today …”_

Frances stops at the door, as the TV turns swiftly off. She hears her daughter, her voice low and whispering. 

“David.” 

Frances swings the door open just as Julia wipes at her cheek, quickly plastering a smile on her face. Frances smiles brightly and hands the plate to Julia. “I thought you might like some lunch,” she tells her daughter, as Julia straightens herself in her chair. 

Julia nods. 

“Thank you,” she replies, as she places the plate down in front of her, before running her hand through her still damp hair. 

Frances wants to ask her. She desperately wants to know about her and David, but once again she cannot seem to ask and again, she wishes her husband was here. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” She finally says before she begins to retreat from the room. 

At the last minute, Frances turns back, just as Julia removes her fake smile, her mask protecting her true feelings, and her head falls into her hands again, an overwhelming feeling of sadness strikes her in the chest. Her daughter may be alive and breathing, but is she truly living?

The answer is no. 

You don’t live if you’re a ghost. 

The third time she hears her daughter say his name, the panic in her voice hits her like a freight truck. 

They are still in France. They seem to have both realised and accepted that this is home for the foreseeable future. Julia’s physical therapy is less frequent and there are far fewer times Frances has observed her in pain. She has even been well enough to go into town this evening. 

The two of them, plus a privately-hired security guard attended a musical in the town square. Frances was delighted to see her daughter smile. She still bears the scars of what happened to her all those months ago, but perhaps, slowly, she is getting better. 

Frances had gone straight to bed when they had returned, whereas Julia decided she wanted to stay awake and watch a film. Frances had kissed her on top of her head and then had left her be. 

It seemed like only moments later, Frances had been awoken by a shriek and had rushed to Julia’s side. She was curled up asleep in one of the armchairs, her legs tucked beneath her. Frances approached her daughter slowly, not wishing to startle her any further. Julia seemed to still be asleep, but her eyelids were fluttering and when Frances reached out for her hand, it trembled. 

“David.”

Julia had whispered sadly, her voice barely able to finish his name. Frances stilled once more, before she leaned over and squeezed her daughter’s fingers tightly. 

Julia blinked, once, twice and then her eyes opened. 

“Mum?” She said, her confusion evident. Her voice was still trembling. 

“You were dreaming?” Frances questioned. She knew the answer before she asked, but she wanted to see what Julia would tell her. 

Julia shook her head. “No,” she lied, as she began to stand. 

Frances sighed. “You and I,” she said softly, “need to talk.” Julia blinked at her blankly. “We need to talk about David.” 

Julia pursed her lips and ran a hand through the ends of her hair and then slowly continued to move to her feet. “Good night,” she said simply as she began to move away from Frances. 

Frances sighed. She could do what she had been doing ever since Julia’s father died and pretend that emotions were something to lock away, or, for once, she could challenge her daughter and maybe they could find some truth. Maybe she could remind her daughter about the strength you needed to find, when you were confronted with living without the person you loved most.

Frances’ eyes met Julia’s and she smiled reassuringly. “You can tell me.” Julia shook her head, 

“I don’t want to talk.” Julia whispered, “I’ll see you in the morning,” she added as she turned and started to leave the room. 

“You asked for him in hospital,” Frances calls after her and Julia stops suddenly, her fingers still trembling as her hand reaches out quickly for the side of the sofa to steady herself. 

She turns slowly back towards her mother, her face is pale and Frances continues, “The first word you said … the first person you called for was him.”

The fourth time she hears her daughter say his name, she actually smiles. 

She stands in the shadows, just within hearing distance and nods at Julia. She watches as she adjusts her beret atop her head, before wrapping her white cardigan around her shoulders tightly. She can see her fingers tremble slightly as she raises them to knock at the door. 

Frances isn’t really sure how they ended up here, back in London of all places. According to all sources, her daughter was safe to be back in their homeland. The threat had been removed. 

Today marks a year. A year since the attack at St. Matthew’s allegedly claimed Julia’s life. If Frances believed in serendipity or fate, she might believe that her daughter _should be_ standing on the doorstep of the person she had fallen in love with one year later. But Frances _still isn’t_ that kind of woman. 

A week ago, there had been a knock on the door of their French cottage. They had both panicked, and Frances had answered the door with the largest kitchen knife she could find hidden behind her back. She had opened the door slowly and had been greeted by the same emotionless eyes that had originally told her Julia was to pretend to be dead. 

He had invited himself in. Simmons, he had called himself. Frances wonders why she had never thought to ask his name before. He had explained there had been a series of new arrests, the trials were all over and the convictions were to be upheld. Julia, was able, so should she so desire to return home, the option was on the table. He could give her a week to decide, and they would not announce her survival unless she agreed. 

There would be measures put in place to ensure her safety in the chaos that would occur if she returned to London. There would be a safe house available with around the clock security. Frances makes eye contact with a heavy-set man, located just to the left of her, and he nods quickly before his attention returns to Julia. 

Frances had watched Julia sit in the kitchen of their French home and weigh all of her options. Her eyes had narrowed and her nose had wrinkled as she processed the fact that she could go home. She could go back to the man she had finally admitted to her mother that she had unexpectedly fallen for. 

In the shadows of one late night, Julia had told her all about David, about how he had entered her life and turned it all upside down. About how he had saved her when bullets had rained down upon them, about how she had started to fall in love with him and when she should have been running away from him and concentrating on her work, all she wanted to do was run toward him. And then how the last thing she remembers before pain and darkness is him, running towards her; a cruel trick. 

Julia had told him she wanted him right beside her, not just because he was paid to be, but because he wanted to be there, he was choosing to be there beside her and then a bomb had taken away the chance for either of them to decide what ‘their choices’ were to be.

Julia admitted that she didn’t remember calling for him in hospital; the first thing she remembers now is Frances by her side as she was transferred from one hospital to another under the cover of darkness. 

Frances takes another breath as Julia knocks on the door once more. Her first knock seems to have gone ignored. She hopes against all hope that he is indeed home and wonders if they should’ve perhaps had Mr. Simmons make some quiet inquiries into how the life of David Budd has progressed over the last year. 

She watches as Julia shivers and then sighs deeply. Frances sends a silent plea out into the world. _Please let him be here._ Her breath catches as the door opens and David sees Julia for the first time. 

Frances sees his reaction, the way his back stiffens, and his whole body stops. How he blinks, unable to believe what he is seeing. Through her own unshed tears, she sees his blue eyes, glossy filled with tears.

Frances thinks for a moment, it seems as if her daughter doesn’t have to find a new way of living without the person she loves. 

It seems David loves her daughter, too.

And, then he speaks, and Frances is certain.

“Julia.” 


End file.
